In the winter it was probably dreary enough; but now the beauty of the
swelling knoll where the little whitewashed house stood, with the tiny
fields that surrounded it, actually made Nan's heart swell and the tears
come into her eyes.
It seemed to her as though she had never seen the grass so green as
here, and the thick wood that encircled the little farm was just a hedge
of blossoming shrubs with the tall trees shooting skyward in unbroken
ranks. A silver spring broke ground at the corner of the paddock fence.
A pool had been scooped out for the cattle to drink at; but it was not
muddied, and the stream tinkled down over the polished pebbles to the
wider, more sluggish stream that meandered away from the farm into the
depths of the swamp.
Toby told her, before they reached the hummock, that this stream rose in
the winter and flooded all about the farm, so that the latter really was
an island. Unless the ice remained firm they sometimes could not drive
out with either wagon or sled for days at a time.
“Then you live on an island,” cried Nan.
“Huh! Ye might say so,” complained Toby. “And sometimes we feel like as
though we was cast away on one, too.”
But the girl thought it must really be great fun to live on an island.
They went up to the house along the bank of the clear stream. On the
side porch, vine-covered to the eaves, sat an old woman rocking in a low
chair and another figure in what seemed at a distance, to be a child's
wagon of wickerwork, but with no tongue and a high back to it.
“Here's Gran'pop!” cried a shrill voice and the little wagon moved
swiftly to the edge of the steps. Nan almost screamed in fear as it
pitched downward. But the wheels did not bump over the four steps
leading to the ground, for a wide plank had been laid slantingly at that
side, and over this the wheels ran smoothly, if rapidly.
“You have a care there, Corson!” shrilled the old lady after the
cripple. “Some day you'll break your blessed neck.”
Nan thought he was a little boy, until they met. Then she was surprised
to see a young man's head set upon a shriveled child's body! Corson
Vanderwiller had a broad brow, a head of beautiful, brown, wavy hair,
and a fine mustache. He was probably all of twenty-five years old.
But Nan soon learned that the poor cripple was not grown in mind, more
than in body, to that age. His voice was childish, and his speech and
manner, too. He was bashful with Nan at first; then chattered like a
six-year-old child to her when she had once gained his confidence.
He wheeled himself about in the little express wagon very well indeed,
old Toby having rigged brakes with which he moved the wagon and steered
it. His arms and hands were quite strong, and when he wished to get back
on to the piazza, he seized a rope his grandfather had hung there, and
dragged himself, wagon and all, up the inclined plane, or gangplank, as
it might be called.
He showed Nan all his treasures, and they included some very childish
toys, a number of them showing the mechanical skill of his grandfather's
blunt fingers. But among them, too, were treasures from the swamp and
woods that were both very wonderful and very beautiful.
Old Toby had made Corson a neatly fitted cabinet in which were specimens
of preserved butterflies and moths, most of them of the gay and common
varieties; but some, Nan was almost sure, were rare and valuable. There
was one moth in particular, with spread wings, on the upper side of the
thorax of which was traced in white the semblance of a human skull. Nan
was almost sure that this must be the famous death's-head moth she had
read about in school; but she was not confident enough to say anything
to old Toby Vanderwiller. A few specimens of this rare insect have been
found in the swamps of America, although it was originally supposed to
be an Old World moth.
Nan did say, however, to Toby that perhaps some of these specimens
might be bought by collectors. The pressed flowers were pretty but not
particularly valuable. In the museum at the Tillbury High School there
was a much finer collection from the Indiana swamps.
“Sho!” said Toby, slowly; “I wouldn't wanter sell the boy's pretties. I
brung most on 'em home to him; but he mounted 'em himself.”
Nan suspected that old Mrs. Vanderwiller had much to do with the neat
appearance of the cabinet. She was a quiet, almost a speechless, old
lady. But she was very kind and she set out her best for Nan's luncheon
before the girl from Tillbury returned home.
“We ain't got much here on the island,” the old lady said; “but we do
love to have visitors. Don't we, Corson?”
“Nice ones,” admitted the cripple, munching cake.
He had heard something of what Nan suggested to Toby about the moths
and other specimens. So when the old lady was absent from the porch he
whispered:
“Say, girl!”
“Well?” she asked, smiling at him.
“Is what's in that cabinet wuth as much as a dollar?”
“Oh! I expect so,” said Nan. “More.”
“Will you give me a dollar for 'em?” he asked, eagerly.
“Oh, I couldn't! But perhaps I can write to somebody who would be
interested in buying some of your things, and for much more than a
dollar.”
Corson looked disappointed. Nan asked, curiously: “Why do you want the
dollar?”
“To git Gran'mom a silk dress,” he said promptly. “She's admired to have
one all her life, and ain't never got to git it yet.”
“I'm sure that's nice of you,” declared Nan, warmly. “I'll try to sell
some of your collection.”
“Well!” he jerked out. “It's got to be pretty soon, or she won't git to
wear it much. I heard her tell Gran'pop so.”
This impressed Nan Sherwood as being very pitiful, for she was of a
sympathetic nature. And it showed that Corson Vanderwiller, even if he
was simple-minded, possessed one of the great human virtues, gratitude.